The last stop on the campaign trail

A few weeks ago I watched a movie about several girls in college. It was one of those glorious fictional stories where the characters are just starting their lives, and the potential and possibilities before them are almost tangible. In the end, everyone figures out what they want and begins to follow their dreams toward becoming an actress, artist or anthropologist.

Instead of getting the high-on-life feeling I'm certain the director intended, I started to cry. I cried to the point of convulsions. I cried until I had a snot-covered t-shirt and a painful case of the hiccups.

I wasn't crying because I regret my own college experience. College was a crazy montage of all the emotions associated with the novelty of freedom and the fear of not quite knowing who you're going to become.

I cried because I suddenly understood my recent loneliness.

In this moment, I have a successful business, a great apartment steps from the beach, a loving family and meaningful friendships. Without a doubt, I'm a lucky girl. It seemed like I had everything I could possibly want, and I mistakenly thought the only thing missing was a life partner.

As someone who has lived life as if progressing along a never-ending campaign trail, I've worked hard to adapt according to my audience - I've perfected renditions of the devoted friend, academic, peace-maker, patient roommate, cheerleader, obedient daughter, court jester, homecoming queen, ambitious business woman and girl next door.

A whirlwind of nervous energy and campaign promises, I fell into my major, and subsequent career, through a series of decisions made to compensate for personal shortcomings and make my parents happy. I've learned how to present myself to achieve, accomplish and win votes, but I've never learned how to accept myself or trust my own intuition.

I value the flexibility and autonomy of my job, but I've never had any sincere interest in my work. I've created lifelong friendships with people I respect and admire, but I don't currently have anyone in the same place in their life to connect with on a daily basis. I love being close to the beach, my family and childhood friends, but I feel suffocated by the inaccessibility of this city.

The cruel combination of traffic, parking and having to drive after a few drinks, keeps me from going to new bars, taking salsa classes, seeing shows, or going to concerts and museum exhibits as often as I would like. Instead, I remain within the convenient bubble of my beach town. I go to the same bars and hang out with the same group of people; all very nice, but lacking my interest in life and learning.

Some people know who they are and what they want to do with their lives by pre-school graduation. But most of us aren't that lucky - we have to solve the mystery ScoobyDoo style through a series of experiences, mistakes and disappointments. The past year has been a crazy roller coaster ride with some tummy-turning drops and loops. Somehow, through all the jolts and jerks, my death grip on the safety consult has loosened, my eyes are open and I'm ready to trust that I'll get where I need to go.

This may seem like standard, post-chick flick introspection, but it's more. Assuming I can figure out the logistics without going broke or ending up homeless, I'm going to move back to New York for awhile. Hopefully I'll be able to live alone, take some continuing education classes and dance lessons, and meet some new people. This is not an attempt to run away from everything and everyone I've known over the past 28 years. Instead, I feel like I'm running toward something. I'm not doing this to win votes, meet a life partner, or make my parents happy. I'm doing this for the woman behind the 100-watt campaign smile.

So much to learn

The infamous "they," state that "the more you know, the more you realize how much you have yet to learn."

My most recent lesson has been that no matter how many theories I come up with, no matter how much time I spend analyzing things, I will never figure out why people fall in love, and why sometimes it works and other times it doesn't.

About two months ago, Guy Roommate starting talking about a new girl. Cowgirl, as I named her based on her Halloween costume, is a sincerely sweet, friendly, cute and witty girl who lives in Dallas. The two of them have a mutual friend and met at a party while Guy Roommate was visiting Dallas in October.

According to some of my theories and observations, Cowgirl has done everything wrong - she made the first (and second) move, she calls incessantly (to the point where I would cringe every time his phone rang), she came to visit first and insisted on a commitment almost immediately. But, Guy Roommate is in love. Not "I really like her and could fall for her someday" love, but "head-over-heels, I'm planning to move to Dallas" love.

Maybe it's timing, maybe Cowgirl and Guy Roommate are soul mates of some sort, maybe it's simply that some guys prefer a woman who knows what she exactly what she wants and wears her heart on her sleeve, rather than a woman who is slightly mysterious and a little bit hard to get. Who knows.

Even though I've realized I'll never be able to create a universal roadmap to navigate the relationship between gender and love, I do know that my observations and experiments have just begun. After all, the infamous "they," also state that "truth and joy are found in the journey, not the destination."

Flirting

I had to go to UPS yesterday. While I waited in line to spend $60 to send a ridiculously small package over seas for work, I noticed that the manager - who was younger than me by the better part of a decade - was adorable.

When I got up to the front of the line, the adorable manager gave me a huge smile and said, "now that you've finally made it to the front of the line, I'm going to do everything I can to make sure it was worth your wait."

I laughed.

As BossMan (the name displayed on his name tag) helped me through the laborious process of sending my [very] small package to the U.K., he winked, smiled and made funny comments. His good-natured manner made me feel completely comfortable and I found myself engaged in witty banter.

As I walked out of UPS, I noticed two things:
1. Everyone in line had been watching our little encounter.
2. They were all smiling...and so was I.

It wasn't until I was back in front of my computer, that I realized what had happened: the UPS guy had been flirting with me. He wasn't hitting on me and I wasn't wondering if he was going to ask for my phone number. In fact, there weren't any expectations at all. It was the kind of innocent flirting that I just don't experience very often - the kind that is done by two people who are simply enjoying each other's company in that moment.

The key to BossMan's flirting was the ease of his delivery - he wasn't intrusive, demanding or desperate. A crucial distinction since, as we all know, a failed attempt at flirting can make the recipient feel so uncomfortable, they might as well be watching Michael Scott deliver a seminar on sexual harassment.

The point? I've always been able to step up and respond when offered some quality flirting, but after my delightful experience at UPS, I've decided it's high time I learned how to be the instigator. So, no grocery bagger, valet attendant or dry cleaning cashier is safe - I'm on the prowl for some flirting practice.

Heating up leftovers

I went on a date or two with Surfer Dude about six months ago, but stopped seeing him when I started getting more serious with MML. A couple weeks ago, I ran into him while I was out with Girl Roommate. Surfer Dude is more than a foot taller than me with striking blue eyes and brown hair. He is both very laid-back and incredibly funny, and we had a great 'ol time hanging out. Over the next couple of weeks we talked on the phone a couple of times, and I laughed out loud at his stories about going hiking in Hawaii without shoes and breaking his toe (it was funny, although writing it now, it doesn't sound very funny), and the annual trip he takes with his buddies to various college towns on Halloween weekend. Even though our conversations were good, scheduling issues kept us from seeing each other again. Then on Monday, he called to see if I was free to go to the Coldplay concert on Tuesday night.

I was.

I've always taken on more than my share of responsibility for making conversation - on dates, in social business situations and otherwise. If the other person isn't holding up their end of the conversation, I automatically feel the need to compensate by asking a lot of questions and avoiding awkward silences by talking about anything and everything that comes to mind. If I'm honest with myself, this is probably my attempt to make other people feel comfortable, and therefore win their vote in my on-going campaign to be liked and accepted.

Well, it's exhausting and I'm done - with the campaign, and with forcing conversation on dates.

While Surfer Dude is funny and interesting, he isn't a "talker." So, on our way to the concert, I started making conversation out of habit. When I realized what I was doing, I tapered off and spoke only when I had something to say. I wasn't necessarily more quiet than I would be ordinarily, but I also didn't work overtime to fill the silences. After my initial discomfort passed, I was pleasantly surprised to find that when I shut up, Surfer Dude stepped it up a notch, asking questions and introducing me to some of his favorite artists. Phew.

The night only got better from there.

We people watched, ate soft pretzels that were simultaneously soggy and stale, sang along with Chris Martin at the top of our lungs, and ran through the pouring rain holding hands on the way back to his car. When we finally made it back to the car, dripping wet, he bundled me in his huge sweatshirt and kissed me.

Cheers to finally shutting up and discovering some absolutely delicious leftovers.

Another ride on the Man-Wagon

Taking a short break from my rants about self-acceptance, I’m going back to another one of my favorite topics: gender. It was apparent from the response to my post, “Letting a man be a man” that I didn’t effectively articulate my point of view. So, I’m jumping back on my Man-Wagon to give it another go.

A quick Google search for “traditional male values,” revealed that authority, infallibility, virility and strength are common masculine attributes. Nothing shocking.

I’m not even going to begin the conversation about whether attributes can be shared by both sexes (I think they can) while preserving the gender differences that keep us from blending us into some weird uni-sex life form that reproduces through science and technology, instead of through “traditional” methods.

However, I will comment on the distinct discrepancy between the traditional definition of masculinity and the representations of masculinity we see today. The example that comes to mind immediately is one of my favorite TV Shows - Two and a Half Men. Charlie Sheen’s character is supposed to represent the Holy Grail of male life - an attractive, successful, perpetual bachelor who answers to no one and is free to indulge in beer, sports, cigars and women (usually significantly younger women) to his testosterone’s desire. While this is supposed to be a comical extreme of masculinity and male utopia, the relationship between manliness and innate laziness and uselessness, is growing in popularity. Married with Children and The Simpsons are other examples of the lazy, useless, bumbling idiot-man that come to mind.

I’ll admit that there are some shows with characters that portray positive masculinity. For instance, Brooke Shield’s character on Lipstick Jungle is married to a man who is sexy and masculine, yet supportive and communicative - hell, he stayed home and played Mr. Mom while she went out and rocked the business world. However, that show has been cancelled. Other masculine characters include Mel Gibson (not the person, merely his character) in The Patriot. Father, protector, provider and leader, the character respects and appreciates women, while embracing the role of homemaker and maintaining the essence of manliness, capability and purpose.

Sure, we're talking about fiction, and neither Mel Gibson nor Charlie Sheen are people I’d be psyched to hang out with in real life, but if I had to choose between the two characters, it’s a no-brainer - I’m going with the man on the horse, carrying the bayonet, who is willing to make room for me in his life.

It seems to me that while women are breaking out of stereotypical roles as mother, sex-pot and ingénue, and into roles as action hero, world leader, crime fighter and business tycoon, men are more frequently being relegated to roles as couch-potato-frat-boy, weak weenie-man, geekizoid and bumbling Neanderthal.

What’s most interesting to me is how these powerful female and negative male stereotypes might be influencing character development in the three-dimensional world. Some of us independent, successful types like to whine about how men are passing us up for the cleavage-barring, eyelash-batting poodle-types because they are “intimidated.” We snarl at men who want to provide for and protect us (even if they know we don’t need them to do either), without considering that these men might merely be seeking purpose in life beyond ESPN.

Have we cast feminism and traditional masculinity in the roles of Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort - enemies, incapable of co-existence? Could it be that one of the negative side effects of the feminist movement (please unclench, a simple criticism doesn’t mean I believe a woman’s place is as the submissive and nurturing compliment to her man’s leadership and authority) that allowed women to be valued for abilities beyond motherhood and homemaking, is also partially responsible for the male-bashing phenomenon and the fall of traditional masculinity?

Call me pro-masculinity (AKA anti-feminist), but perhaps the appeal of poodles is less about their eye-shadow application skills and more about their ability to let men feel that they are needed, that they are appreciated…that they have a general purpose. If we staunchly independent feminist types are guilty of aligning masculinity with the lazy, couch-dwelling, womanizing, beer-guzzling, porn-loving, Charlie Sheen-esque Neanderthal, should we be surprised that men aren’t rushing to hold open the door for us? Heck, for all they know, we might yell at them for it.

There are no stones being cast from behind this computer screen. I’m guilty of lumping men into masculine stereotypes. I find myself making excuses for my Guy Roommate, who is unconcerned with the fact that making dinner and leaving all the ingredients - usually meat, sour cream and cheese - out in the pan or on the counter for hours and hours on end, will inevitably attract bugs and create unappetizing odors. I find myself defending his distaste for picking up after himself to my Girl Roommate (for whom male-bashing, and alcohol, eases insecurities about her own appeal to the opposite sex) by stating that “he’s just a dude.” What the hell does that mean? Yes, a large percentage of men might be less genetically inclined to care if they are surrounded by clutter than most women, but I’m pretty convinced it’s also a function of the lazy man-slug perception that we’ve bought into. We let guys off the hook for certain behaviors that we consider a function of their masculinity. While deciding that vacuuming is the epitome of manliness might not result in men jumping off the couch and revving up the Hoover, I can see why, if their gender lets them off the hook for some less-than-fun chores, they’d go with it. Expecting nothing - or the worst - from men is certainly not going to motivate them to prove us wrong.

What went wrong?

Since cavemen and clubs, women have sought the attention of men. This innate desire is clearly tied to survival of the fittest and procreation - we must be more attractive than other women in order to be chosen for reproduction. Fair enough.

Since we've evolved past seeking a mate based solely on their physical ability to hunt for food or protect our offspring from wild animals, it's only natural that the definition of attractive should evolve as well.

But has it?

While we might work at developing qualities that make us good candidates for life partnership, most of us are also guilty of focusing on - with or without actually achieving - the extreme physical qualities that are considered attractive. Extremely thin. Extremely large boobs (even if they're fake, erasing the original basis for their appeal - reproductive ability). Extremely white teeth. Extremely young-looking skin. Extremely expensive clothes, jewelry and shoes.

While we might strive to become dynamic, rich with life experience and develop true confidence from the inside out, we also buy into the message - which is constantly being shoved in our faces - that in order to be the most attractive, we must be waifishly thin with big boobs and a perky butt, have a glow-in-the-dark smile and wear $300 jeans.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not going to pretend that my sunny disposition, compassion and intelligence make me feel any cuter when I'm standing in a bar full of Malibu Barbies, but I'm certain that we can all agree that one of the most attractive qualities a woman - or man - can have, is confidence. The extremes will certainly stop traffic, but they don't stand a chance of covering up insecurity that presents itself in the extremely unattractive neediness, jealousy and desperation.

The era of extremes doesn’t stop at injecting poison into our bodies to stop the unthinkably unattractive signs of age. Between the acceptance of random hook-ups and the abundance of mid-drifts, cleavage and micro-minis, being slutty has become standard, trendy even.

High school, college and twenty-something women are making out with each other in bars to win the timeless battle of “who can get the most attention.” It’s commonplace to share the epitome of intimacy with a complete stranger and not even greet them when you pass on the street. How have we managed to convince ourselves that running into a one-night stand at the gym, and not feeling like you know the person well enough to say hello, isn’t weird? Where being a slut used to be associated with shame, it’s now a symbol of feminism; proof that, like men, women can satisfy their carnal needs without emotional attachment. Sleeping with men for sport has become an aspirational quality, something that makes a woman independent and strong.

I'm certainly not the Yoda of life or love, but I have learned that confidence, independence and strength have very little to do with receiving attention from men or achieving certain physical standards. These lofty attributes are even more hard-won then a perfectly taut tummy - they come from self-acceptance.

When pot sitrring goes awry

Halloween night started out fabulously. My costume - Betty Boop circa 1940 - was a hit, our party was raging and two of my three 'pot stirring' invitees were in attendance.

One of my these special guests, Rico Suave, is a very good-looking, incredibly charming guy I'd met on a recent Thursday night date with my Girl Roommate. Initially, I'd been turned off by his slightly intrusive, over-the-top attention, but he eventually won me over with his light-hearted personality and tireless effort. Rico Suave called me a couple days after we met, but I never called him back.

Although I have some good reasons to be wary of super-charming, ultra good-looking guys (it has been my experience, that guys who are smooth talkers got that way by practicing...a lot), I tend to discount them altogether...which is a lot like discounting any guy who wears tapered jeans or drives an expensive sports car. So, in the midst of my pot stirring revelation, I'd decided to invite Rico Suave to our Halloween party. What better way to stir the pot then to throw in some unusual ingredients.

With the party in full swing, I was having a great 'ol time flirting, drinking and being a social butterfly. I didn't even realize I was drunk until I started making out with Rico Suave in the middle of the party...much to the dismay of my other special guest (oops). It was clear I needed to cut myself off - this was bad form for a reformed kissing slut. When Rico Suave's friends were ready to leave and head downtown, he hesitated, making it clear that he was hoping we could take our public display of affection somewhere a little more private. Inexplicably disenchanted, I told him to go with his friends.

Shortly after saying goodnight to my make-out buddy, I noticed that Girl Roommate and Guy Roommate were no where to be found. I briefly waded through the party for my roommates, realizing that I didn't recognize most of the remaining party guests, and that our house was quickly beginning to look like a frat house on homecoming weekend.

I decided to take brief refuge in my room to remove my itchy Betty Boop wig and enjoy some quiet time with a few Doritos. I was sitting on my bed, happily munching away, when four Poodles (for a definition of a Poodle, please refer to The Poodle Problem ), dressed as slutty cast members of Whinny-the-Poo (who knew Eeyore and Piglet could be slutty), came crashing through my closed door, landing in a drunken, giggling pile on my floor. I'd never seen these girls before in my life, so stepped over the Disney road kill, and fought through the crowd to catch some random, rather large guy, letting people into our house through the back door.

I was pissed.

I decided I needed to find my roommates, have them identify their friends and kick everyone else out. Apparently, in my drunken state, I hadn't noticed that my Girl Roommate had left the party and headed to the bars (Girl Roommate isn't a fan of house parties where the choices of men tend to be limited), and that Guy Roommate was off somewhere, "occupied" with his out-of-town crush, Cowgirl.

Now I was really pissed.

I identified one of Guy Roommate's friends, a frequent resident of our couch during football season, and demanded that he help me kick out the people we didn't know. Minutes later, there were only a handful of people remaining...and pretty soon, I was alone, lying on the couch in a cave of beer cans and red cups, drunkenly trying to bring DVRed episodes of The Office into focus by closing one eye.

With no desire to see my roommates or start cleaning up the mess, I called for back-up. My knight in shinning armor, on loan from the LAPD (yes, J-Dogg), came to pick me up after he got off work. I retreated to his apartment, eager for Halloween to be over.

Of course I didn't expect my first efforts to stir the pot to end with my ex-boyfriend. But sometimes, you just know what you need.

Getting off my butt and stirring the pot...

Recently, I've gotten some questions about whether I'm actively dating anymore. The answer is yes, I still go on a lot of dates. In fact, my guy roommate never ceases to be amazed at the sheer number of dates on which I go (although he is easy to impress, as he hasn't gone on a date since I've known him). But here's the thing: for me, there is a monumental difference between "going" on a date and actually "being" on a date. "Going" on dates has become such a large part of my life, that I've actually added it to my resume. However, with the exception of a couple recent, random, dates with J-Dogg, it's been awhile since I've really been on a date.

Until last night.

I met Military Man last week and was actually rather excited to give him my phone number. Although he is very cute, when it came time to actually go on a date with Military Man, I didn't feel like it...I wanted to sit at home, watching DVRed episodes of Gossip Girl and drinking wine. However, this is generally the reaction I have to the EXHAUSTING prospect of a first date. I didn't feel like taking a shower, doing my hair, picking out an outfit and struggling through "first date conversation." I was about to cancel when my Girl Roommate gave me the speech: "Just suck it up and go. You never know, it could be great. Plus, Guy Roommate is parked on the couch watching sports...again. Even a first date beats battling him for the remote."

Can't argue with that.

So, I took a shower, did my hair, picked out an outfit and gave myself a pep talk. Turns out that Military Man is really quite interesting. He is from Iowa, went to college in Wisconsin, enrolled in Officer's school after graduation, joined the Navy, served in Iraq, came back and is now finishing up his service while simultaneously getting his MBA from a very prestigious program. He suffered through my endless questions - and relative cluelessness - about the military, and seemed interested in my work and my life as well. Overall, it was very pleasant.

Maybe I'll see Military Man again, maybe I won't. Regardless, last night was exactly what I needed to remember what it feels like to enjoy a date (with someone other than J-Dogg). It also made me realize that being bored with my dating life isn't an excuse to camp out on the couch and live vicariously through my favorite friends from The Upper East Side - it's a reason to stir the pot a little.

So, in an attempt to stir the pot, I invited several guys that are yet to be important enough to have nicknames, to the Halloween party I'm throwing with my roommates on Friday night. It could end up being a disaster, but at least I know my vintage Betty Boop costume will go to good use.

The return of FR

Didn't expect to see that name again, huh? In case you need a refresher, Filthy Rich (FR) is a bi-coastal hotel mongrel with whom I once had an amazing conversation. Unfortunately, FR is probably about 30 years my senior...think wrinkles and sagging body parts.

Anyway, about a week ago, I ran into FR at a local dive bar. With a few drinks under my belt, I was very excited to see my old friend (no pun intended), even though I'd ultimately decided to blow him off after our previous meeting, mostly due to my aversion to liver spots and my acknowledgement of his intentions (I’m not cut out for the Anna Nicole Smith role). Within seconds, we were in the midst of yet another fantastic conversation, and what seemed like only moments later, the bar had closed and the bouncer was kicking us out.

FR: Let's go somewhere else and have another drink
TAF: I think all the bars are closed.
FR: Let's go to Bar X.
TAF: Pretty sure it's closed.
FR: Well, I'm pretty sure it'll be open, let's check it out.

Turns out Bar X was closed, but that they were miraculously willing to stay open just for us. I'm not sure if FR owns Bar X or if he just paid them to stay open, but we enjoyed another couple of drinks while the staff waited. Patiently. After pre-paying for my cab (which I didn't even notice) and saying goodnight, FR said that he wanted to see me again...the following night for dinner, if possible. I told him I had plans (which I did), thanked him for the drink and smiled coyly as my urban carriage pulled away.

FR texted me later that night to make sure I'd gotten home - no response (I was too busy passing out).
FR called me the next day to tell me that he rarely enjoyed an evening as much as he'd enjoyed our evening together, and to ask if my plans could be broken - no response.
FR called the following day to see if I would be able to have dinner before he went back to NYC - no response.
FR called again the next day to ask what he'd done wrong, to tell me that I was one of the most charming and interesting woman he'd ever met, and to beg me to please consider sharing one meal with him.

I knew I'd run into FR again at some point, and I certainly didn't want him to think he'd done anything wrong. So, liver spots and all, I decided to accept the dinner invitation with a resolution to make it very clear - in a breezy, classy way, of course - that things weren't going to progress past friendship. I finally called him back and agreed to have dinner several days later.

FR never contacted me to confirm the details for our dinner date. In fact, I didn't hear from him until late in the evening on the day we were supposed to meet. He'd suddenly had to fly to San Francisco for a meeting and hadn't been able to call. Luckily, a couple months ago I made a hard and fast decision not to wait around for guys - geriatrics included - who don't call. By the time FR contacted me to explain, and say that he'd just flown back down to LA and was hoping we might still be able to meet up, I'd made other plans. We rescheduled, but several days later I found myself stuck in almost the exact same scenario. There were apologies, compliments and assurances that this was uncharacteristic behavior.

I enjoy spending time with FR, but I have no intention of having any sort of relationship with him. Somehow this knowledge protects me against being too flexible (sure, life happens, and flexibility is essential, but there is a fine line between being flexible and not putting enough value on your own time and life), disappointed, or worrying what he'll think about me if do this or say that. It never occurred to me to change any of my set plans to accommodate his schedule. I wasn’t even tempted to down-shift our plans and meet him for late-night drinks in order to satisfy his desire to see me immediately.

After recent reflection about the behavioral differences between being in a Fan Club and having one, my situation with FR served as a case study. For me, the freedom of having no interest in someone comes from the previously discussed ability to be completely comfortable with myself and what I have to offer, and an absence of any premature fear that if I don't present myself or do things in a particular way, I might miss out on something that could be great...something that could be forever. After realizing this, I've decided it's not much better than expecting to be whisked away by a handsome prince and live happily ever after. With someone I'm not interested in, I take things as they come, without thinking about the future or putting unrealistic expectations on myself or the "relationship." Obviously it's easier to value yourself and your time when you don't have any real interest in someone, but I'm hoping practice makes perfect.

The next step

Most of my best friends from growing up are married, and a lot of them are starting to have kids. I suppose the EVENTUAL goal of finding a life partner would be to start a life and a family together. But lately, I've realized that I'm in no hurry for the eventual part.

One of my very best friends was venting to me after bickering with her husband, and said something along the lines of, "honestly, I don't even care if he's started smoking again as long as he helps with the damn dishes." I couldn't help it, I laughed out loud.

Watching how hard my parents have worked to make their 40-year marriage a successful one, I have no delusions that people get married and "live happily ever after." There have been times when I've even wondered if it's worth all the effort.

Another girlfriend is juggling a three-month old baby, a husband with a career that forces him to spend a lot of time away from home and a job of her own. Talk about exhausting - the woman can barely eat a full meal or watch a TV show. Sure, I see how she looks at that little girl, but I still need a nap just thinking about all the responsibility.

From runny poop and incessant crying to the fear of hurting or irreversibly screwing up your child, early motherhood looks like it sucks. It looks like a lot to put up with just to have someone who, bound by the circle of life, will comfort and care for you when your body and mind inevitably begin to deteriorate.

Of course I can't fully understand what it's like to be married and have kids from where I stand, but I do understand how people get there. For the same reasons I feel ready to share my life with someone, I can imagine that once you are with someone who is worth the sacrifice, frustration and exhaustion of constant compromise and communication, the desire for the rest - regardless of if "the rest" is commitment or marriage and kids - will follow.

In relationships, we always seem to be focused on the next step, whether that be our first kiss, our first boyfriend, getting married or having our first kid. However, since I've yet to meet someone that I want to share a bathroom with for the rest of my life, I'm going to make it my personal mission to enjoy exactly where I am. Who knows, in a few years, I might miss this...

The Fan Club

The group my brother has always jokingly referred to as my "Fan Club," is a small collection of guys who inexplicably, but firmly, believe that I'm the best thing since Monday Night Football.

The Fan Club consists of men from different periods in my life - high school, college, New York and LA - that have professed their love and proven their devotion to me...repeatedly. Some of these men have gone to great lengths to keep in touch with me, or show how they feel about me. Flowers delivered across 6,000 miles, jewelry, mixed CDs, letters and even a marriage proposal or two. One of them sent me a copy of a painting by my favorite artist, two years after I mentioned - in passing - that the particular scene reminded me of "how love should feel."

I've briefly dated a couple members of the Fan Club and kissed all of them (shocker, I know). Members of the Fan Club vary in personality, interests, intellect and attractiveness. In fact, these men have only two things in common: a romantic interest in me, and my lack of romantic interest in them.

While this probably seems like a sudden outburst of uncharacteristic arrogance, I urge you to hang in there - my point is far from arrogant.

In fact, I have been the president of several Fan Clubs myself...

We've all had them - the guys we obsess over, the ones for whom we carry torches and wear rose colored glasses, avoiding the reality of their imperfections and their luke warm interest - or total disinterest - in us.

Dickwad
During my freshman year of high school, eager for a romance like the ones I saw on TV, I fell hard for Dickwad. Oblivious to the fact that he was a senior with a reputation for preying on younger girls, I hungrily accepted his attention and his compliments about my smile, my eyes, my body. He was sexy with piercing green eyes and dark hair. I waited with baited breath for Dickwad to look at me, to talk to me, to call me...and he did. Assuming the attention of an older man was my official transition into womanhood, I tried to act sophisticated and coy, but in reality, I followed him around campus, gazing at him with Bambi eyes and giggling like the fourteen year-old girl I was. When he asked me to the Homecoming dance, I was on cloud ninety four.

As you may have guessed, the night didn't go as planned. Straight out of a scene from a high school soap, Dickwad barely acknowledged me during the dance, and proceeded to earn his nickname after I refused to perform certain...tasks. Scared, hurt and confused, I found an older family friend and hitched a ride home.

Naive, but not without self-respect, I should have despised Dickwad, and I knew I should despise him. But I didn't. Instead, I wondered why he didn't like me, and assumed that somehow I wasn't enough. I continued to carry a torch for Dickwad until he graduated the following spring. I'd been addicted to the pain of unrequited love and infatuated with my perceived inadequacy.

CollegeGuy
I met CollegeGuy during my first year at Lehigh, and the attraction was immediate. He was preppy but manly, quiet but witty, athletic and incredibly intelligent. We lived in neighboring dorms and flirted for weeks until he finally worked up the guts to kiss me. For the next two months, we laughed, talked, flirted and made out between classes. I found myself in foreign territory - I felt like I was falling in love.

During my senior year of high school, my first real boyfriend had cheated on me with my best friend and then dumped me to be with her (for more details, please refer to The Ex Files). A year later, I was scared to death. I was scared I wouldn't measure up to other girls. I was scared that I'd lose the amazing feeling I'd found. Desperate to understand "where I stood," and how far I was from the inevitable rejection, I tried talking to CollegeGuy about the status of our relationship. The more I talked, the more I felt him slipping away. A month later, he told me he was still in love with his girlfriend from high school and that they were getting back together.

I was devastated. I wondered what SHE had that I didn't have, I wondered if I just hadn't said X, or if I’d done more of Y, maybe he would have picked me instead of HER. Eventually, I became good friends with CollegeGuy. I was his confidant, and I guided him through his romantic pursuit, while silently nursing the hope that he’d see the error of his ways and leave HER for me. It never happened. I tortured myself over CollegeGuy, while unintentionally collecting members of my own Fan Club...until Lacrosse came along.

Lacrosse
I met Lacrosse at a frat party - he was wearing light blue pajama bottoms with white clouds on them, and he was heading to bed because of an organic chemistry exam. I was hooked. Immediately. I walked right up to him and made some flirty, witty and smart-ass remark about his choice of PJs. I remember the way he looked at me appreciatively before he threw his head back and laughed his deep, sexy, contagious laugh. We dated for awhile and I couldn't get enough. Lacrosse liked me too, so I called him, found ways to be at the same parties as him, accidentally-on-purpose ran into him at the library and attended his Lacrosse games (and cheered loudly). About a month or two after we started dating, he mentioned that we was really nervous about an upcoming exam...I baked him chocolate chip cookies in the shape of the words "good luck."

I'm completely serious.

About a week later, Lacrosse told me that he needed to focus on his school work.

My roommates spent months scrapping pieces of my shattered heart off our gold linoleum kitchen floor, while I convinced myself that Lacrosse ended things because I wasn't interesting enough, or because I wasn't thin, cute or even smart enough.

Cringe. Gasp. Shudder. Looking back now, these stories evoke intense physical pain. I literally want to hurl myself onto the 405 Freeway when I think about my past displays of rampant insecurity. But we've all been there at some point.

Eventually, I realized that CollegeGuy and Lacrosse felt what I feel about the members of my Fan Club. They liked me, just not enough. Aside from the fact that insecurity is the ultimate turn-off, their lack of interest had very little to do with how interesting, cute or thin I was (or wasn't) - sometimes you're the one who pines, and sometimes you're the one who is pinned after.

Sometimes you just end up with the short end of the Emotional Wishbone.

But in my opinion, there is another point to all this. From high school through my early twenties - when I didn’t know exactly who I was, much less know how to act like myself - “being myself” with someone I was crushing on, meant being anxious to tell the guy how much I had to offer (often via the oh-so-attractive first date resume regurgitation). It meant never giving him a chance to discover what I was all about or to prove that he was worth all the hype I’d created. It meant dropping everything to spend time with him. It meant waiting around for phone calls. It meant being available at a moment’s notice. It meant focusing on every small detail, just to gain clues about how he felt.

In contrast, with members of my Fan Club, I was never worried about presenting myself in a certain way - I was confident, caring, ambitious, sarcastic, curious, and even a little demanding. Authentic me.

Even though I’ve come a long way since the days of cookie art, I still struggle to remain calm when I meet someone who makes my teeth sweat and has the potential to throw my entire universe out of whack. In fact, I’ve actually had to train myself to let the other person EARN a place in my life…to maintain my routine instead of offering infinite flexibility, to remain open to other dating opportunities for as long as appropriate, and to not throw all my emotional eggs in one basket every time someone makes my tummy do a little flip-flop.

We all have baggage, we all have insecurity and we all fear rejection. But until we are genuinely comfortable with what we have to offer, and can accept the fact that some people just aren't going to like us as much as we like them, those crush-worthy dreamboats are always going to have the ability to shatter our world...or at least catapult us into a couple weeks of general self loathing.

I wish I could end this post by offering some brilliant advice for achieving this complete self-acceptance, but unfortunately all I've got to offer is the generic, but oddly appropriate "fake it til you make it." Other than that, I will say that it helps me to remember how far I've come since the Lacrosse games and Bambi eyes.

Panties in a twist

In need of some shallow entertainment, I picked up US Weekly at the grocery store last night. While I enjoyed juicy stories about family drama, wrecked marriages and over-indulged children, I noticed that there were several sections devoted to 90-pound actresses who claim that they "don't diet."

Sigh.

I understand the Hollywood pressure to be thin. I realize that "Who Wore it Best" is more about "Who is Thinner" or "Which Actress/Model is More Popular This Week" than the designer outfit in question. I'll even admit that sometimes I think thin makes up for not-so-pretty. For example, I adore SJP, but if you took away her incredibly thin - yet athletic - figure and trendy hair, she doesn't have a typically beautiful face. Sure, there are times when I sincerely think she is a pretty woman, but mostly, she is just really thin.

Since I'm guilty of these thoughts, I feel that it would be inappropriate for me to climb up on my soap box and point out that as the line between genders becomes more blurred, both men and women look more like 12 year-old boys.

But I simply can't remain quiet when anorexic-looking women are claiming they "don't diet." Clearly full of crap and nothing else, these women avoid the label of "LIAR" on the technicality that to "diet" you must actually consume food at some point. The new trend of claiming to be effortlessly thin really pisses me off. I'm no physician, but I can assume that very few people are born so thin that the bones in their shoulders stick out and the circumference of their thighs is equal to that of their arms.

An expression of deranged Hollywood logic, I think this trend is an attempt to present a healthier attitude to young people. Well, high on spray tan chemicals, these folks obviously didn't consider the possibility that young people - a group that doesn't exclude certain 28 year-olds - are going to see uber-thin women who "don't diet" and figure that their own bodies are genetically inferior since they were never able to attain (even as a 12 year-old), much less maintain a 12 year-old figure in their 20s, 30s, and 40s.

"I have to work very hard to look as good as I do. I work out every day, I go hiking and I have a personal trainer." One of the many reasons Gwen Stefani is a cool chick.

When TAF goes MIA

I could say that I haven't written lately because I've been crazy-busy keeping my little business afloat during a time of economic ruin. I could say that I've been dealing with health and family issues, and a teenage dog that has enough angst and emotional baggage to rival good 'ol Brit Spears. While all of these statements are true, they aren't the reason for my blogging delinquency. I wish I could say that I've been too busy dating an endless string of delicious and interesting men to find time to chronicle my man-capades (thanks for the new term, Nicole ;-). But that would be a flat-out lie.

Some of my favorite bloggers write their most poignant, hilarious or thought-provoking posts when they are feeling conflicted. But for me, writing usually comes in moments of clarity and evolving life perspective.

Over the past couple of weeks, I've been fighting a vague loneliness. While this loneliness isn't specific to a person or event, it's been so exhausting that I find I'm uninterested in things that ordinarily bring me joy, satisfaction or hope.

Years ago I had a dream about love. It wasn't an over-the-top romantic fantasy where a knight-like character comes to sweep me off my feet; it merely featured a faceless man and an overwhelming feeling of love. To this day, I've never had a dream or real-life experience that could rival that feeling.

I'm a lot of things. Sentimental and emotional are certainly on that list, but sappy and unrealistic are not. So why have I been missing someone I don't know...someone I can't identify...someone I haven't even met?

I know I'm not the first person to feel this kind of loneliness, and I know it doesn't make me sappy or (gasp) un-feminist, but the longer I'm unable to shake my emotional rain cloud, the harder it is to ignore the fear creeping in like a drunk teenager who broke curfew.

I've stood boldly behind my declaration that I'm ready to find a life partner, and I've tirelessly defended the difference between being ready to find a life partner and wanting to get married. While my dedication to defending the latter hasn't budged, I'm beginning to question where I stand on the former: if I'm not completely content in my life as it is, am I really ready to meet the faceless man? If my goals and my life aren't enough to make me leap out of bed in the morning, could it be that I still have some work to do before I'm the person I need to be in order to open my life to someone else?

I'm working on the answer to that question, but in the meantime, I'm also going to work on finishing the numerous blog posts I've started in the past couple weeks...I might even try striking up a conversation with my quiet neighbor who has long hair (it's a little too Fabio-esque for my taste, but I think he's going for more of a surfer dude look, so I'll let it slide) and beautiful blue eyes.

My life as a practical dater

Warning: serious generalizations ahead.

I have this theory that women in their twenties need to be abused by men. Twenty-something women tend to go for the hot, talented, athletic or charming guys who are used to having things - especially women - fall into their laps. These guys aren't accustomed to putting very much thought or effort into their relationships, because they've never had to. So, twenty-something women get ignored, cheated on, cast aside and blatantly used...and then come back for more. These guys aren't jerks (well, some of them are), they're just coming into their own, which means testing their limits in all areas of life, and experiencing success and failure.

As twenty-somethings, we make it easy for guys: we sleep with them immediately; we call and text before they even have a chance to miss us; we walk, drive or fly to see them; we give them second, third and fourth chances to hurt us; and we lie about how we really feel in an attempt to appear like the cool, independent woman we wish we were. Essentially, we focus on making our guy happy - hoping that we will earn his love - and we don't expect a lot in return.

At some point, things seem to shift. Maybe we figure out who we are, or start to recognize what we need to be happy, but we stop seeking out Mr. Popular, and start noticing guys who notice and appreciate us. I've watched a number of my friends experience this shift, and I've noticed that it's followed closely by finding their future life partner. Call it my theory on the process of romantic maturity.

Although I've definitely suffered my share of twenty-something-like abuse, my romantic history hasn't been as text-book as some of my friends. After a handful of earth-shattering experiences in my teens and early twenties, I realized that dating Mr. Popular caused nothing but heartache, so I shifted my radar and focused on finding Sweet Little Geeks (SLGs). Figuring that these guys were more likely to adore and appreciate me (and secretly - but probably obviously - trying to protect my heart), I thought I'd out-smarted the natural course of romantic maturity. In some ways, my plan worked. I certainly dated men who adored and appreciated me, but something was always missing. I tried to force myself to have feelings for guys who genuinely liked me, assuming that attraction would come with time.

It never worked.

I'd date a guy for a couple months, waiting for my feelings to develop. Eventually, I would give up, hurting the guy and disappointing myself. For someone relatively self-aware and insightful, I let this pattern go on for WAY too long. By my late twenties, I'd never been with someone I wanted to be with...I'd never fallen in love with someone who loved me back.

Then I met J-Dogg.

He wasn't Mr. Popular, but he definitely wasn't an SLG. Even though he never said it (he wrote it, but never did muster up the words), he showed me what it felt like to be loved by someone I loved in return. He taught me that while attraction isn't always connected to the hottest or most charming guy, it's an essential component of a relationship. He was manly - something SLGs often lack - and I FINALLY realized how appealing the differences between a man and a woman can be. I also learned that while I want and need to be adored by any man I end up with, I also need to be with someone who challenges me and communicates with me.

So here I am again, still in the dating game - with its trauma and hilarity - and I'm finally on my own path to romantic maturity as I learn to balance practicality and chemistry.

An interesting night

On Thursday I was supposed to write an eloquent and persuasive letter on behalf of one of my clients. However, I wasn't feeling particularly eloquent or persuasive. I was feeling annoyed.

I wasn't annoyed at anything in particular, but at everything in general. I was annoyed that some women don't exercise and are just naturally thin. I was annoyed that I'm not particularly stimulated by my job, but that fear of failure keeps me from pursuing my secret aspirations. I was annoyed that people don't use their turn signals when it's SO easy to do. I was annoyed that my Guy Roommate STILL hasn't grasped the concept of putting things INSIDE the dishwasher, instead of next to it. I was annoyed that people keep telling me I'll find love "when I'm not looking for it." What a load of crap. Not that finding love is the sole focus of my life, but unless I become a bitter, haggard woman living in a small apartment with a bunch of cats, I seriously don't see how I will ever not be looking for love...until I find it.

But mostly, I was annoyed that I was annoyed. Luckily, it was Thursday, and the best remedy for a grumpy mood is Thursday night date night with my Girl Roommate. I thought going out with my roommie was a great idea until I got to the bar and came face-to-face with MML for the first time since he ended things.

MML was with FunnyMan and Hair, two of my favorite people, and we all had a happy reunion. I figured we would get the hugs and hellos out of the way, and then my Girl Roommate and I would continue with our evening.

Nope.

MML was clearly drunk, and it was mere seconds before he was all over me. He was dancing with me, on me, or around me for the majority of the next several hours. His buzz made him deeply aware that there is nothing sexier to a woman trying to have a conversation with someone else, than a man who dumped her, coming up and ramming his butt in to her crotch and stomach. Sexy.

As the night went on, and I was laughing and talking with my friends, he was kissing my cheek, rubbing my back, sweeping my bangs off my forehead and pulling me as close to him as physically possible. He couldn't stand it when I wasn't paying attention to him, he couldn't stand it when I was talking to his friends and not to him, and he couldn't stand it when I was looking at the crowd and not dancing with him. Confused, I didn't overtly reject his advances. Instead, I quietly, gently and consistently moved his hand, his lips, and his body away from me. MML finally left the bar to go home, and I stayed for awhile as my Girl Roommate's wingwoman. When I got home, I wasn't at all surprised to find the following text from MML: "What are you doing?" Although 20 responses ranging from scathing to flirty came poring into my head, I managed not to respond at all.

The part of me that was abruptly dumped by someone I was beginning to have sincere feelings for, was triumphant and satisfied by this display of attention. But the part of me that wants to stop dating the wrong guys and find something lasting and real, was stunned to see a man who had spent three months convincing me that he was ready to move into the next stage of his life acting like a spoiled two-year-old who wasn't getting his way.

My limited interactions with MML since things ended between us, have made it increasingly clear that the guy I thought I was dating was partially a fraud. MML presented himself as a man with all the pieces of his life in place - a man who was happy with his life and ready to share it with someone. I sincerely believe he wanted to be that man, and I certainly wanted him to be that man...maybe we are both at fault for allowing ourselves to live in a fantasy world. But seeing him now, pouting when the girl he dumped won't come running back to his embrace, I see that he was a man-child playing dress-up. He was role playing with me; trying on adulthood like a costume for some play. I could be flattered that he cast me as his leading lady, but I'm not looking for a role-playing partner, I'm looking for a life partner.

Maybe it's hindsight, maybe it's my annoyed mood, but I'm hoping that I'm ever-so-slightly more wise having been able to resist a charming, successful and adorable guy to see a potentially hurtful situation. Plus, with the cat-lady years still safely in my future, I'm optimistic enough to let myself think that this experience will bring me one step closer to finding someone wonderful, someone who really is ready to share their life with me.

28...and a half

Last Friday morning, I woke up to hot, rather stinky, breath on my face. I opened my eyes and found myself staring at my puppy. She was peering at me over the edge of my bed with a look of concern on her fuzzy little face.

As I slowly became aware of my surroundings, I realized why my puppy was so concerned. Aside from a nasty headache, I was still wearing my clothes from the night before (including my stilettos), and had clearly never made it under the covers. In fact, I was lying sideways across my bed, with my silver BCBG pumps dangling haphazardly off my swollen feet. Judging from the make-up stains on my bedspread, I'd probably intended to take a little "nap" before committing to putting on PJs and washing my face.

It had been another Thursday evening date with my Girl Roommate, and once again, we'd ended up having too much to drink. But this time it was different - it was my half birthday. I didn't share this information with my Girl Roommate because, well, does anyone besides me really notice when it's their half birthday? Usually it's a passing thought, but this year, it kept popping into my head like an Outlook reminder.

My half birthday ten years ago was the day I got drunk for the very first time. I'd just moved in for my first year of college and my best friend, Beantown, came to visit. Being a more experienced partier (I was president of the goody-goody club in high school), she guided me toward Mike's Hard Lemonade for my first real alcoholic experience. Needless to say, the evening did not end well.

I inevitably drank too much and drunkenly begged my best friend to accompany me to bathroom, where I immediately plopped down on the tile in front of the toilet. The bathroom was approximately 3 square feet and didn't have any windows or ventilation. Plus, the August heat had transformed the bathroom into a torture sauna, and Beantown kept begging me to "throw up already" so we could "get the hell out of the godforsaken bathroom." But I couldn't. I just sat there, with the world spinning so quickly it was reminiscent of too much funnel cake and "The Tumbler" at Six Flags.

With sweat dripping from every last extremity, my best friend grabbed the plunger that had been sitting innocently in the corner, and told me to "open up." Before I could even focus my eyes enough to see her coming at me Psycho-style, Beantown was sticking the wooden end of the plunger down my throat. After the relief of throwing up, I looked at Beantown from the floor, and with big, drunken brown eyes and said, "thank you." Desperate times call for desperate measures.

I wish I could say the night ended there. But after we escaped from the bathroom and had a SunChip feast on my carpet, I threw up in my own underwear drawer and proceeded to take the entire drawer out of the dresser and attempt to "rise it out" in the sink. It didn't fit. I left the drawer sticking awkwardly out of the sink, filled with my own original cocktail of barf and water. Finally, I passed out - in my stilettos - for the very first time.

A decade later, Beantown is married, finished with grad school and living in Boston. And then there's me...a 28 and a half year-old, recently reformed kissing slut, who hasn't quite (but almost!) grown out of passing out in her stilettos. But here's the thing: I like who I am. I like my life. I like that I'm a woman on the verge of everything important in my life. I have yet to meet my life partner or figure out of my life's work. I have no idea where the next year will take me, much less the next five. Sure, when I was 18 and a half, I certainly thought I would be married and settled by the decrepit age of 28 and a half, but the truth is I wouldn't trade the last ten years of adventure, experience, city life, career changes, dating drama and friends for all the plungers in the world.

Something in the water...

I don't know what's been going on this past couple of weeks, but there must be something in the water because boys are crawling out of the walls - here is a brief review of my romantic encounters over the past two weeks:

Last Monday:
I hung out with J-Dogg. I went over to his place to watch Californication DVDs, a show he got me hooked on the last time we hung out. Before settling on the couch, he bought me my dream dinner: wine, chips and salsa and the new Elle with JSimp on the cover (magazines featuring Jess are my crack). We watched TV and of course I stayed over.

My friends keep asking "what's going on" with J-Dogg. The best explanation I can come up with, is that we know we aren't going to end up together...and I don't even want that from him anymore. However, there's a connection between us that I love. Thus far, our random hang outs haven't caused any problems. I only see and talk to him sporadically and I'm not secretly pinning over him, wondering "where this is going." So for now, I'm not going to worry about it.

Last Friday
Last weekend started out with a pleasant, but relatively unnoteworthy, Friday evening happy hour date with a guy I'll call Wisconsin - the motorcycle enthusiast/rocket scientist (literally).

Last Saturday
Saturday was my Girl Roommate's birthday party and I'd invited Texas (MML's best friend's girlfriend...the one that had a surprise party for her boyfriend the day after MML ended things between us) because she is a cool girl, and I sincerely want to be friends with her.

Anyway, Texas gave me a heads-up that she was planning to bring her boyfriend, FunnyMan, to the party. I was a little surprised when the two of them showed up along with MML's other best friend, Hair. While FunnyMan and Hair joked about how they were "crashing" the party, it briefly crossed my mind that these are the three people that MML hangs out with every weekend. I didn't think about him again until FunnyMan and Hair started joking about what an idiot MML was to end things with me, and adding in a not-so-stealth manner that he was kicking himself for making that decision. Texas chimed in, stating that there was absolutely nothing happening with WenchFace, MML's ex. I didn't even care if any of it was true, it was everything I wanted to hear, and I just lapped it up. *Slurp*

I proceeded to hang out with MML's friends for the next several hours, laughing to the point of stomach cramps. Finally, someone let it slip that MML had actually dropped them off at the party...but obviously he couldn't come with them. I guess I could feel bad about that, but it seems silly to waste my energy.

Then, when everyone was getting ready to leave our house and head to the bars, I noticed a beautiful hunk-of-man talking to my Guy Roommate. Tall, athletic, striking blue eyes and dark hair...delicious. Feeling a little giddy and brave on my home turf, I looked him directly in the eye (for the recommended three seconds), smiled and went back to talking with some friends. A few minutes later he was at my side and said, "A group of us are headed to [insert name of local bar here], I'll be really disappointed if don't come and meet up with us."

Needless to say, I met up with the bar hoppers and spent the majority of the night hanging out with BeautifulMan...he was witty, successful and endearingly shy. The night ended with some smooching. Definitely an unexpected turn of events. On Sunday, he called to invite me down to play volleyball with some of his buddies. I had plans and had to pass, but before we hung up, he asked if I was free for dinner on Friday night. Ummm yeah, I think I can pencil that into my schedule.

Sunday Night
I was sitting on the couch with my roommates, watching Weeds, when I got a text message. I opened my phone and almost choked on my stirfry when I saw MML's name. Jigga WHAT!? The message was odd, asking my opinion on who should have won So You Think You Can Dance - a show we discussed in depth when we were dating.

It probably took me the better part of an hour - and a detailed debate with my Guy and Girl Roommates - to decide if I was going to respond. On one hand, I didn't want him to think I was bitter. I certainly wouldn't have a problem being friendly if/when we run into each other. But on the other hand, I don't want to be his buddy, and I certainly didn't want him to think that I'm going to get back together with him, or even worse, "take what I can get from him." Eventually I responded with a brief, and very direct, answer to his question. "Katie was robbed."

The rest of the text conversation went like this:

MML: Texas and I just got done watching The Notebook, at the end of which, I turned to her, balling, and said, "it's just so sad."
Me: Yeah, good flick. So, the texting thing is new...
MML: Ahh the details never escaped you, young lady. We're catching up. I'm watching the So You Think You Can Dance finale again - the "no air" number is good.

At that point I decided not to respond. I'm not sure what he was hoping to get from the conversation, but in the best interest of my heart, I decided no good could come from further correspondence. If he had something to say to me, he should have just said it.

Thursday
On Thursday I took my puppy to the dog park with the hope of tiring her out, and therefore ceasing the Speedy Gonzalez laps she'd been doing around our house - knocking over chairs, tables, and me. Knowing that he lived within walking distance of the park, I texted BlueEyes - a cute firefighter with a fascinating life story I'd recently met - to see if he wanted to come meet my dog. He did. We chatted, played with my pup, and talked at length to a flamboyantly gay man with a horse-sized dog. It was really fun, but also incredibly comfortable. So, since I spiked the ball into his court Beijing-style, keep your fingers crossed that my little act of bravery leads to coffee, dinner...something!

Last Night
Last night was my much-anticipated date with BeautifulMan. He had been in contact throughout the week, calling on Wednesday to chat and confirm our plans for Friday. Then, on Friday he called to get feedback on his dinner ideas, and solidify a time. Attentive, adorable.

So everything was fine and dandy...for exactly 20 minutes. BeautifulMan picked me up and we had a good time making conversation on the way to the restaurant. Things went downhill from there. As soon as we sat down, he informed me that he'd just eaten a ton of food at a work event he'd been suckered into at the last minute, so he asked if I wanted to share something. I have no problem sharing, but I do have a problem when I'm the only one eating...which I was. During dinner he barely looked at me while he jabbered on about sports and work. He also checked out each and every hot chick who passed our table, and not uncommon for our town, there were a lot.

By the time dinner was over, I probably could have gone home, but he was just SO cute. To make a very long story short, we ended up going to a party that a friend of mine was throwing. After discovering the BeautifulMan knew a bunch of people at the party, I also learned that he has a pretty solid reputation - which he pretty much confirmed for me later in the night - for sleeping around and doing a variety of drugs. To each their own. However, I'm relatively certain that BeautifulMan is not my future life partner.

Dunt, dunt, dunt, another one bites the dust.

Men-u

I need to know who casts models for the J.Crew catalog...and I need to make that person my best friend.

A new J.Crew catalog is a serious event for me. No, it's not the over-priced - yet adorable - prepster clothes. No, it's not the 'aspirational life scenario' photo shoots that make me wish the J. Crew photo department could plan my dates, my wedding, my life. It's the men.

For me, going through that catalog is like a menu at a delicious restaurant - everything looks so damn good it's almost painful.

I like to sit down with the catalog and a glass of wine, and pretend that I can actually order one of those men gracing the not-so-glossy pages. Pretty, yet slightly rugged. I love them - each and every one of them is my soul mate.

Yes, I got a catalog today.

FR Update

Okay, so I've decided not to call FR, and here is why:

I was walking home from the gym on Tuesday, bouncing back and forth between the two more poignant comments:

Life with Marcy:
"NOOO! This reminds me of the movie Big Daddy when Sonny found his woman with an old man. "Hey, you just made the biggest mistake of your life, baby. I know you're gonna be missing me when ya got that big, white, wrinkly body on top of ya, with his loose skin and...old balls! Gross!"I had to look the quote up for this occasion."

Chardsy:
"think of all the blog fodder you will get from having dinner with him, it will be amazing!"

Then, I passed a man, probably in his 60s. Without the forgiving lighting of the bar and the even more forgiving fog of three glasses of wine, I was struck - almost to the ground - by how OLD he looked. The wrinkles, the the liver spots, the gray hair - it could be my D-A-D. I just can't do it.

But regardless, I do have a date tonight with a youthful, motorcycle-loving engineer.

The Accidental Feminist, Part II

Lately I've gotten a couple questions about the overall point of my blog - is TAF a collection of observations and experiences, or is it an attempt to redefine feminism? I don't have an answer to this question (yet), but I think to appreciate my perspective, its important to understand how TAF started.

I was raised by a woman who is brilliant, strong, successful and honest. However, my mother is also more than a feminist - she is a sexist. My mom has actually admitted to me that she doesn't respect men as much as women.

Picture a household where the woman makes more money, more decisions, does all the family driving, the majority of the yard work, breaks out her tool belt to fix the sprinkler system that she installed herself, and coaches her son's baseball team. I grew up idolizing my mom - she could do everything. But I also watched my mom refuse to let men do things for her. I watched her growl under her breath when a man tried to open a door for her, or offer her his seat in a crowded waiting room. When my dad forgot to do something or neglected a request she'd made, she would respond in a way that would unintentially reject and emasculate him, while proving her superior competence. Failing to fulfill her needs, time after time, I saw my dad struggle to please mom, ultimately finding success in the role of her errand boy. My dad did the dishes every night, took her car to the car wash religiously, made sure she had gas, did all the family ironing and picked up her mail from the office.

On the outside - and even on the inside - it looked like my parents had a system that worked for them. But as I got older, I started to realize that while they have been married for 40 years, are good friends to each other, amazing parents and a well-oiled marriage machine, they never touch, never audibly say "I love you" to each other, and generally lack the tenderness that can exist between a man and a women - the kind that I've seen outlast the more fair-weathered passion and attraction. The kind that can endure even the longest of marriages.

I've always admired and appreciated the selfless and tireless enthusiasm with which my parents raised me and my siblings. However, I didn't realize how their relationship shaped my own romantic interactions...until this past Christmas.

With a Christmas list that includes items like scissors, tape, socks and office supplies, it has always been tough to pick out something meaningful for my mom...especially for my dad. After years of all of us nagging my mom to include some "fun" items on her list, we had taken to forcing her to make a Christmas registry at her favorite store, or marking specific items in a catalog. This past year she marked a beautiful jewelry box in the Pottery Barn catalog. My dad jumped at the chance to buy her something he KNEW she wanted. On Christmas morning, he proudly presented the box to my mom and she opened it. Instead of a look of joy, I noticed the very uncommon threat of tears spread across her face.

My mom excused herself and fled to her bedroom. I followed her, asking what was wrong and if there was anything I could do to help. She started crying and dismissed my affection with the obvious intention of not wanting to ruin my Christmas morning. She just mumbled something about my dad hurting her feelings before asking me to go check on him and make sure he didn't "burn the bacon like he always did."

It occurred to me days later that my mom was upset because she had gotten exactly what she'd asked for. My mom had trained my dad to do exactly what she told him to do, which didn't leave a lot of room for thought, feeling or emotion. What my mom was missing - what had hurt her so badly on Christmas morning - was that my dad's gift didn't come from the heart. It didn't represent what he felt about her, or how glad he was to have her as his wife and partner. This was one of the first times that I realized that while my mom is a tower of strength and the picture of modern feminism, she has the same feminine desires as the rest of us.

It's hard to imagine another person I could admire as much as my mom, but somewhere along the way, she had a large part (although certainly not the only part) in teaching me that it's not okay to yearn for a man to hold me, want to take care of me (even if I don't need it), protect me, adore me. Instead, I learned that showing weakness (in emotion or competence) was equivalent to throwing on a flowered apron, and focusing your entire life around preparing dinner for your husband.

If you were to meet me today, with my passion for clothes, make-up, dance, cheesy TV shows and celebrity gossip, it would be difficult to believe that I am constantly fighting my feminine side. But these things are easy. Letting a man carry my grocery bag, pay for dinner, open a door or help me train my dog (I can do it myself, thank you very much!) tests everything I've ever known.

So for now, TAF is a chronicle of my thoughts and experiences as I re-adjust my view of men, dating, feminism and relationships. I think my ultimate goal would be to reassure myself - and maybe a few of you - that there is a balance between Stepford Wives and reverse sexism. I want to embrace both my feminine and feminist sides while preserving the innate gender differences that make romantic relationships so interesting, and so delicious.

The adventures of Drunky Drunkerson

I was going to explain how I love certain alcoholic beverages - red wine (honestly, it doesn't even need to be good red wine), incredibly dirty martinis...and mimosas. I was going to explain how last Saturday my Girl Roommate woke me up with a wheel borrow full of mimosas and a plea for me to accompany her to the annual drunkfest/volleyball tournament on the beach. I was going to explain how I was wasted before breakfast and how I made so many new friends on my way to the tournament, that I never actually made it there. I was going to explain how I ran into J-Dogg, ended up yelling at him in public (apparently), stormed off in a huff (allegedly) and then staggered two miles home (and proceeded to get yelled at by a local homeless man and asked out by a ver